He smiled bitterly at the thought of the bitch who’d borne him and the father he’d never known, nor, he suspected, had she. Whoring slut! How many times had he been cast outside while she, in the warmth of the house, had entertained? Had his own father been like those he’d seen through the glass? A slick-haired musician with a cruel smile and smoldering eyes, the kind of man she’d attracted and brought home? How many nights had he been sent outside while she entertained?
Cold, cold mother.
Living nearby.
Some of his elation ebbed when he thought of her, a woman who didn’t even recognize her own child. He’d seen her on the street and she hadn’t so much as given him a second glance. A frozen-hearted bitch.
Ironic that Jenna had chosen this part of the Northwest to claim as her own. As if fate had drawn her to the Columbia Gorge and its frozen winters.
It had been perfect. He’d had no trouble finding a place close by, a private ski lodge that had been abandoned years earlier when the owner had gotten ill. After the owner had died, his heirs were anxious to get rid of what they’d considered an albatross. It hadn’t been difficult to convert the lodge into his own private quarters. He’d done the work himself, and in the summer, when the roads were clear, had been able to haul up all of his building materials and supplies. Then, of course, there were the black-market sources who had supplied him with everything he needed for his artwork, including the alginate as well as the drugs and syringes, tiny cameras, anything he needed. His contact in Portland could get him anything, no questions asked.
The winch stopped and his truck was now twenty feet above the road, hidden by the trees. The only other access was around the mountain, a drive that would take forty minutes in normal conditions, and hours, if not longer, in a storm as fierce as this one.
Not that he was afraid of anyone finding him.
No one knew who he was.
And they would never know.
The answer was right in front of him. Carter was sure of it. While Rinda and Allie huddled in the den and officers from the OSP waited for the crime lab, he unrolled the printouts of the people who had visited Jenna’s Web site, her fan Web sites, rented or bought movies, came into contact with her here at the house and through the theater, people who owned property within a twenty-mile radius…His mind was moving fast, but time was ticking by.
Merline Jacobosky and three associates from the State Crime Lab arrived after Shane had double-checked both the barn and the logging road to make sure that Jenna or Cassie weren’t in either place. A deputy had been posted at each of the killing sites, waiting in the cold.
Carter had been on the phone with the OSP, asking for them to get in touch with the cell phone company that Jenna and her daughters used, hoping that the phones were still with the women and that the GPS chip would show their positions. He’d also asked for officers to check with Harrison Brennan, Travis Settler, Hans Dvorak, and Ron Falletti, two men who had dated her, her ranch hand and personal trainer, all of whom would know her routine. He’d discounted Wes Allen, who was, reported by a deputy, on his favorite stool at the Lucky Seven where the backup generator allowed the bar to remain open.
And time was ticking by.
“I wouldn’t have gotten here so quickly,” Jacobosky told Carter, “but we were working on the other side of Hood River. Looks like we won’t be able to get back to Portland tonight. The road’s impassable.”
“I guess we got lucky.”
“If that’s what you want to call it. I think luck would be sitting around a fire at a lodge après ski and drinking mulled wine or hot toddies. But, of course, this would be my second choice, camping out in a town where most of the electricity is out and there are very few hotels,” she said dryly. “So where’s the first body?”
“In the barn.” Carter filled her in and led the group to the crime scene in the barn.
“Jesus,” Merline said under her breath as she ran the beam of her flashlight over the pool of blood, footprints and paw prints smeared on the worn plank flooring, then eyed what was left of Turnquist. “Looks like someone was waiting. Ready. Had the weapon with him. Probably slashed his throat, threw a rope around him and over the crossbeam, hauled him up, and gutted him. That’s unofficial, mind you. The M.E. will make a determination.” She ran the beam down Turnquist’s torso. “Cut cleanly, probably a hunting or th
at type of knife, maybe even a surgical blade. By the way he gutted the body, he’s done this before.” She shined her light on the entrails piled near an old barrel used for feed. “Nice,” she mocked. “Better scoop this up before the rats get to it.”
“A hunter,” Carter observed, eyeing the bloody mess. What kind of psychotic would do this?
“If he isn’t, he should be,” she said, her nose wrinkling in distaste beneath her rimless glasses. She looked pointedly at one of her assistants. “Maybe someone who’s had military training. That would be my guess.” She looked up. “Okay, guys, rope the entire area off…may as well keep everyone, including the damned dog, out of the barn at least until we sort out these prints and search for trace evidence.” She made some notes on the papers on her clipboard.
“There’s another body, right?” she asked.
“This way.” Together, collars turned up, gloved hands plunged deep in their pockets, they slogged through the snow and along the fence line to a spot where some of the snow had been churned up and flattened, now covered with a fresh layer. They climbed over, made their way through a copse of iced-over trees, and saw the truck, door still open, interior light feeble, warning bell dinging softly and slowly, the only noise other than the ever-present wind.
Josh was lying on his back, his head lolled to one side and hanging off the edge of the seat. Snow and ice covered his face, but couldn’t disguise the deep red slash beneath his chin. His thin goatee and hockey-stick sideburns were crusted with frozen blood, his skin a ghostly white.
Merline let out air between her teeth. “Just a kid. Anyone called his folks?”
“Not yet,” Carter said, eyeing the pickup, his flashlight sweeping the ground where there were signs of a struggle, the snow disturbed, and Josh’s blood seeping down the seat, over the running board and into the snow.
“As soon as the M.E.’s done, I’ll send someone out to the Sykes place.”
“Helluva job that’ll be,” she whispered, then bent down to get a closer view of the body. She ran the beam of her flashlight over Josh’s throat. “Slit ear to ear. Doesn’t look like much of a struggle. Again, I’d guess the guy was lying in wait, the victim not having time to defend himself.”
Carter glanced at his watch, felt the urgency of the passing of time. Where was the murdering bastard who had Jenna? If the weather were better, there could be helicopters or planes searching the surrounding hills, but as it was, they were forced to the ground, and with the storm, a search would be nearly impossible.